


Touch Me

by eadunne2



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hands, Hell, Love, M/M, Post 10x22
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 14:04:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4922386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eadunne2/pseuds/eadunne2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas was overwhelmed by the delicacy of Dean’s hands. He sewed up a gash on Sam’s forearm so gently that Sam had been able to read an entire news article while it happened. Without wincing. He taped up a cut on Sam’s forehead, callouses barely whispering against his brother’s skin, though Cas didn’t miss the way he smooths a few unruly hairs away from Sam’s face.<br/>Cas wonders what those hands would feel like on his skin. Wonders if he’d ever trust himself to touch Dean like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch Me

**Author's Note:**

> havntedcastiel.tumblr.com said, “DO YOU EVER JUST THINK ABOUT HOW CASTIEL HAS AN INCREDIBLE AMOUNT OF STRENGTH AND HOW HE HAS TO TONE IT DOWN WHEN HE IS AROUND DEAN BECAUSE ONE SIMPLE TOUCH COULD SEND DEAN BUCKLING TO THE GROUND AND YET CASTIEL IS SO CONSCIOUS AND SO GENTLE AND HE HAS TO REMEMBER TO DO THAT ALL THE TIME DO YOU EVER REMEMBER THAT AND THEN WANT TO FLING YOURSELF INTO THE SUN BECAUSE I DO” and was gracious enough to give me permission to write about it.
> 
> Post 10x22, but also kind of AU. Dean no longer has the mark and shit is generally back to normal. Lots of liberties taken with timeline, so if you’re canon police, bail now. Otherwise, Enjoy!

Castiel is so fucking thankful he learned his lesson on an inanimate object and not a living, breathing human being. So, so fucking thankful. It’s natural now, to move gently, delicately, with such extreme caution that he worries he might not be moving at all, but a celestial force designed to move galaxies can also work within human mitochondria, so he relaxes into the contradiction. 

The lesson gets learned early on, shortly before the first time they meet, though he’s fairly certain Dean never noticed. As he appeared, new in his vessel and fresh on this plane of existence, he had brushed past an ancient oak on the way to the barn. It exploded.

He’d barely touched it. The bone of his wrist had caught as he’d strode toward the building, and it flew apart. When he opened the barn doors, they’d almost crashed off their hinges, but at least they remained in one piece. It had been centuries since he’d taken a vessel. He didn’t remember them being this hard to control.

As he and Dean had spoken (argued) he’d touched a few human artifacts around the room. It served a double purpose: to practice controlled interaction with physical objects, and to distract from the confusing, blinding radiance of the man he was sent to confront. 

Somehow Castiel had thought that his memory of saving Dean from the pit erred in some way from reality. It was simply impossible that his soul had shone so brightly, with such intricate pain and joy and hope and love and guilt woven tightly and then bared for Castiel to see. Castiel had watched humans for millennia. None had been so beautiful. 

There in the barn he realized he’d been right. His memory hadn’t done Dean Winchester justice. Not his face, not his body, not his soul. 

Despite Dean’s anger the beauty flared so brightly, so adamantly, that Castiel couldn’t help but be aware of it. How ironic that that night foreshadowed their future together, Cas watching the beautiful layers shift, wax and wane beneath a facade of machismo. It was worth it though, to be a witness. To keep his truth hidden. That he’d loved Dean Winchester from the moment Dean’s soul had touched Castiel’s grace, and would continue to love him until the day that grace faded from existence. 

For so long Cas was afraid to touch him. He wasn’t afraid of much, and for many years, he credited his fear of touching Dean to how easily he could injure him. 

There had been a day when a flat tire had halted their drive. It was a beautiful day, early autumn, and Sam was back at the hotel researching while he and Dean went into town to talk to the county sheriff. Dean had been humming and drumming on the steering wheel, though he kept glancing down at Castiel’s hands. 

Cas had been moving his fingers to the song as well, tapping out a melody on an invisible keyboard, but he always paused when Dean glanced over, nervous that he was doing something wrong and a little irritated by the feeling.

“What?” he finally asked.

“You play piano?”

“I’m older than the planet, Dean,” he said dryly. “I’ve picked up a few skills along the way.”

“Yeah. ‘Course,” Dean replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just...you never play, is all.”

“Where would I play? It’s not like there are pianos just lying around.”

Dean blushed and shrugged. Human reactions were bizarre.

In truth, Castiel had only learned to play within the past few years as a way to practice precision and delicacy of touch on the human plane. He’d had to repair more than a few keys during his nightshift practice sessions in the Steinway factory, but now he had a fair amount of repertoire memorized. Photographic memory was helpful that way. But still, for some reason, he hesitated before placing a hand on Dean’s shoulder. What if he should forget himself? He knew the intricate twinings of sinew and bone and blood that made up the human shoulder. He could repair them, but he’d sooner give up his grace then cause Dean any pain.

It wasn’t until after purgatory that he realized he was in love, and suddenly the apprehension around touching Dean took on a whole different layer of meaning. He couldn’t drive Dean away any more than he already had. Couldn’t lose him. 

But perhaps there was no helping that. On that beautiful day with the flat tire, when Dean had pulled out the jack to lift the car in order to change out the tire, Cas had mozied over and lifted the car by the bumper.

“Don’t bother. I can just hold it.” 

Dean had stumbled backwards a few steps and stared and Cas had very quickly but very delicately set the car back to the ground. “What? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-” He knew how important the car was to him, more even than perhaps Dean knew himself.

“No, No it’s fine, Cas. I just...I wasn’t expecting that.” Dean ran a hand over his face and sighed. “It’d be great if you could...hold the car,” he finished, tone incredulous, but he wasn’t joking, so Cas complied. “Just don’t crush me ok?”

“I would never.” Dean looks like he knows that, as uncomfortable as he appears with Cas’s angel strength, and for the moment, it’s all Cas needs.

Back on the road later, Cas had left his coat off. After a few turns as a human he was strangely aware of heat and cold, almost like a phantom limb. He turned up the cuffs on his shirt and leaned his forehead against the window, reveling in the cool of the glass. He caught Dean looking again, at his hands and forearms where they rested in his lap, and wondered if perhaps he should’ve left well enough alone.

Dean is painfully aware of the differences between the two of them already, Cas knows. He’s hard-pressed to find another explanation as to why Dean so adamantly refuses to acknowledge his fondness for Castiel, but it makes sense. Humans very rarely lie with angels, for a multitude of reasons, not the least of which is the fact that an angel could accidentally kill a human with something as small as a misplaced gesture. He wonders if Dean thinks about it as often as he does. 

Shortly after, when Dean is dressing Sam’s wounds, Cas is struck by how fragile humans are. He’d “left” on “angel business” (the longing emanating from Dean had been too confusing and painful to remain around), but of course checked in on them during and after the fight. They were fine aside from a few cuts and scrapes, and Castiel dismissed the urge to reappear and fix Sam his damn self. Cas was overwhelmed by the delicacy of Dean’s hands. He sewed up a gash on Sam’s forearm so gently that Sam had been able to read an entire news article while it happened. Without wincing. He taped up a cut on Sam’s forehead, callouses barely whispering against his brother’s skin, though Cas didn’t miss the way he smooths a few unruly hairs away from Sam’s face. 

Cas wonders what those hands would feel like on his skin. Wonders if he’d ever trust himself to touch Dean like that. 

After the “Dean beating the shit out of Cas” incident, it gets worse. Because Castiel knows the power in those human hands now, and it’s still not enough to protect Dean if he should forget himself. It’s so much worse, in fact, that Castiel, once so foreign to emotion, is overwhelmed enough that he freaks out a little. Not that he would have phrased it like that.

There’s a forest a few miles from the bunker, far enough that he assumes he’s safe. Hurling boulders into trees isn’t the most productive use of his time, and he feels a twinge of guilt at the insects that lose their lives to his tantrum, but it gets done nevertheless. 

He’s heartbroken. He can see that now, though he’d never realized how much it hurt, watching it on other people. But Dean has established his distance, made himself clear, and he will respect it. The mark may be gone, but Cas knows Dean is still struggling. The turmoil is evident on Dean’s face even if it weren’t clear in his mind, but Cas finds the knowledge doesn’t help much. Angel or not, he felt every blow.

“Why didn’t you stop me?”

Somehow Dean had managed to sneak up on him.

“How did you find me?” A question for a question. Unproductive, but fair.

“Sounds like goddamn World War III over here.”

“My apologies,” Cas replies tersely, and turns back away.

““You could’ve stopped me in a heartbeat. Why didn’t you?”

“Dean…” Cas sighs and tugs at his hair, a bad habit he'd picked up in simpler times. “You must know I’d never intentionally cause you pain.” He’d almost slipped up a time or two back in the bunker, trying to stop Dean from leaving...almost grabbed him too hard.

“You didn’t have to hurt me. Just...stop me. Slow me down.” He sounds angry, but Cas knows it’s with himself. 

“I wasn’t...I don’t always…” Deep down, he knows he’s in control. He’s worn this vessel for years, been human a few times since, he can thread a needle and play the piano and eat with utensils, hell, he knows he can fuck someone without breaking them in half. He’s just so goddamn scared. “I told you. I don’t want to have to hurt you. 

“Cas.” The pain in Dean’s voice is excruciating, and Castiel wonders if this is broken past repair. Dean certainly thinks so, thinks it’s his fault, but Cas knows otherwise, knows it’s his own, and it makes him want to weep. He turns and hurls another rock half the size of the Impala and a branch flies off and towards them. With angel reflexes, he simply jumps in front of Dean and braces, let’s the log glance off his shoulders and fall to the ground. 

Dean’s knees buckle and he falls to the ground, untouched.

“Dean! What-?”

His shoulders are trembling beneath his leather jacket, and Cas exhales unnecessarily, makes sure he touches Dean with gentleness, and slides his fingers under Dean’s chin to lift it. Green eyes bright with tears blink slowly back at him. Such pain. Suddenly Castiel realizes his plan to keep from hurting Dean Winchester has failed anyway, they’re a breath from falling apart for the last time, and there’s nothing to lose.

“I love you, Dean Winchester.” He makes sure he’s looking Dean in the eye, makes sure not to cover the tremble of his voice, painfully human and perfectly accurate. 

“You can’t,” Dean chokes out. “You’re too…” He gestures helplessly at the chaos behind them, trunks of tree and stone littering the forest floor like a graveyard. 

“Oh.” Cas says softly. Dean’s not wrong. He is a bit of a monster after all. Carefully, he withdraws his hand and strangely, Dean lurches forward as if to follow it before sitting back on his knees. “I...understand.” He does. It’s terrible.

“Do you?” Dean grumbles. “You understand that I’m a goddamn demon?”

“Not anymore,” Cas argues, but Dean ignores him and rages on. 

“A fucking menace? And you are the physical embodiment of grace? How can you possibly love me? How can you even touch me?” 

Cas surges forward and takes Dean’s face in both of his hands. “No! Dean, you are exquisite. Beautiful. I have loved you since the moment I saw you.”

“I stabbed you,” he says flatly.

“No, actually. You embraced me.”

Dean looks confused. “No...I’m pretty sure I remember stabbing you. Sparks? Bedhead? Ring a bell?”

“Wasn’t the first time I saw you,” Cas replies with a shake of his head. 

“In hell,” he realizes brokenly.

Cas nods and thinks back, a hundred lifetimes ago and yet no so very long at all in the grand scheme of things. “You were guarded heavily. Quite a prize soul, to angels and demons alike. By the time I reached you I was wounded badly, even for me. I grabbed you and you curled into me, placed a hand over a gash on my chest, held pressure over it as we fled. You were so beautiful, even frayed to pieces. You tried to heal me, though I was sent to save you.” He sighs and runs fingertips through Dean’s hair. 

Dean’s eyes are closed as he whispers, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“That I love you? Dean, I’m the monster.” Anger sweeps through him and he stumbles to his feet with an embarrassing lack of grace. “The evil I’ve caused in the name of good alone makes me undeserving of you, but if that isn’t enough, look around! I could destroy you _by accident_. I couldn’t bear it. And besides,” he finishes, turning away. “Love unreciprocated is pointless.”

“Unreciprocated,” he hears from behind him. 

“It’s just as well,” Cas rationalizes. He fishes around for the pockets of his trenchcoat and realizes he’s not wearing it, or a tie, just his white button up that now feels like it’s strangling him despite the unbuttoned collar. 

“Just as well?”

“Are you just going to repeat everything I say? Yes. Just as well. I’m letting you off the hook, Dean. You’re free. You can go enjoy your life, until the next fucking apocalypse I suppose. I’ll leave you alone until you need me again.”

He raises a hand in farewell, confused at the surge of hope and anguish emanating from the man behind him, now on his feet by the sound of it, and starts to walk back to the road.

“I need you.” 

It’s not the first time Cas has heard that, in fact it inspires some guilt in him, and he turns to give a curt remark but is silenced as Dean closes the space between them and kisses him roughly. 

Immediately and without any self control, Cas kisses back. His hands find their way around Dean's back, pressing him forward against Cas’s chest. 

“I don’t understand,” he gasps. 

“I love you,” Dean growls. “I’m sorry, Cas. I’m so, so fucking sorry.”

“I forgive you.’

“Yeah, well, I don’t forgive me.”

“Please. Let it go. You love me?” He gets back to the important part.

“Since the beginning.” 

“Since you stabbed me,” Cas jokes with the first genuine smile he’s given in what feels like years. Dean tightens his arms around him.

“No. I...remember. In hell.”

“You weren’t supposed to remember that,” Cas murmurs, awed.

“When have I ever done what I’m supposed to?” he says with a wry smile. “I spent so long convincing Sammy I didn’t remember hell, it just became part of my mentality, but...I remember everything. I remember seeing you, praying you were there to kill me, and then you picked me up and it felt like...coming home.” He shakes his head. “Stupid, I know.”

“No,” Cas gasps, pressing kisses to his cheeks, his forehead, his eyelids. “No. I know the feeling.” With trembling fingers he places a palm over Dean’s chest, feels his heart beat against his fingers.

Back at the bunker, he lets Dean take him apart and put him back together again. He returns the favor. And his hands seem to know just what to do. 

He doesn’t think about it again, not ‘til years later as he’s absently fidgeting with the band of silver around his finger. It’s twin sits on the hand of the beautiful man breathing softly in bed beside him, and he spends a few minutes thinking about the power in those human hands, the way they can bring an angel to his knees, and that maybe he and Dean are evenly matched, for all their differences. Worthy opponents, two halves of a whole. 

He hears the coffee pot click on. Rolls over tugs Dean onto his chest, buries a hand in his hair. 

“Time to get up,” Dean murmurs.

Cas smiles against his forehead closes his eyes. “Just a few more minutes.”


End file.
